A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)(9)

It’s first rate. My dad married a woman who doesn’t plan to divorce him for profit and knows how to bake. That’s two points in her favor already.

“I like to mix things up, so I never get bored. If you’re still here next week, I’m going to do an oatmeal cookie with dried cherries.”

“That sounds fantastic,” I admit. “But I won’t be here next week. My job is very demanding.” I sound like a dickwad right now, but she already knows the score. What kind of family is so broken that the dad doesn’t bother inviting his sons to the wedding?

This kind. And I honestly don’t know how I would have responded if he’d invited me.

I guess we’ll never find out.

Here comes the man himself, carrying a sheaf of papers. He sits down in the chair beside mine and grabs the remaining cookie off my plate. He takes a bite of it.

“Hey!” I complain. “I was going to eat that.”

“There’s more,” he says while chewing. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to choke.”

“Why would I choke?”

He folds back the top page of the document he’s holding. I read TERMSHEET FOR THE SALE OF MADIGAN MOUNTAIN LLC TO SHARPE INDUSTRIES. Then I skim the relevant details on the page.

And when I get to the price, I almost swallow my tongue.





CHAPTER 5




I DO ALL MY OWN STUNTS





AVA I suppose it’s possible I won’t set eyes on Reed Madigan again before he goes back to California. Those two minutes in my office might be the last time I ever see him.

And that’s as it should be.

But my heart doesn’t care. Suddenly, the resort is a minefield of potential Reed Madigan sightings. When I cross the hotel lobby after work, I’m surreptitiously checking my peripheral vision for a pair of broad shoulders. When I walk over to the ski school office to pick up a folder, I expect our paths to cross.

And when they don’t, I’m both relieved and disappointed.

I am a fool. We’re not even friends. Reed Madigan is just a man I used to know.

Intimately.

Very intimately. So intimately that I can’t stop thinking about him while I bake a double batch of my cream cheese brownies for girls’ night. And when I find myself digging for my eyelash curler at the bottom of my makeup bag, I realize the situation is truly dire.

Reed is the only man on the planet who has ever made me want to pinch my eyelashes with a metal torture device, before carefully applying eye makeup. I ransack my closet for a nice top, even though I’m going to put my coat over it before the fifty-yard walk to Callie’s apartment.

He’d better fly back to Silicon Valley before I totally lose my marbles.

I think I’m halfway there.





The minute those brownies are cool enough to handle, I grab the tray and my keys and step outside. I live on the second floor of my little apartment building, and the exterior walkway has a nice view. Night has fallen on Madigan Mountain, and the resort is lit up in the distance. Steam rises off the heated pool, the mountain a big, dark shape beyond.

I take a deep breath of cold air and try to settle my nerves. This is my home now. It’s not Reed’s. That’s been the case for a long time. Maybe I ended up here because I was grieving him. And, yup, coming to Colorado was a crazy thing to do.

But that was ten years ago. I have roots in this place. It’s mine now. And I don’t have anything to apologize for.

I walk past two other apartment doors and hustle down the wooden staircase. At the bottom, I hurry along a short pathway to reach Callie’s building, where I knock twice before turning the doorknob and letting myself in.

She comes running across the generous room toward me. “Holy crap, Ava,” Callie says, taking the brownies so I can remove my coat. “You look like a total babe tonight. What is the occasion?”

“It’s girls’ night,” I say stupidly.

My friend blinks back at me. “The last time you came over for movies at my place, you wore track pants and a ski hoodie that says I Do All My Own Stunts.”

She isn’t wrong, so I change the topic. “Look, I made brownies! A double batch.”

There’s a loud squeal of approval from the sofa, where Callie’s daughter, Sutton, is perched with Raven, our friend who runs the ski school.

“The ones with the cream cheese?” Raven asks, clapping her hands together.

“Yesss!” Sutton says, bouncing on the sofa.

“You can have one brownie before you brush your teeth and go to bed,” Callie says.

The little girl is already on her feet and following me into the open-plan kitchen. Her mom goes back to scraping frozen wine out of a pan and into the blender.

“Ava! I have a question for you,” Sutton says.

“Does it have to do with the size of your brownie?”

She laughs. “No, but good idea. Can you make it triple sized?”

“No way,” Callie says. “One normal-sized brownie is all she gets.”

I give the kid a shrug that says, hey, I just work here. “What else were you going to ask me?”

“Can I be in the Opening Night Parade? Pleeeeeeeease. I’m a better skier than, like, half the grownups who work here.”